


Reveille to Taps

by Cryo_Bucky, romanticalgirl



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Killing, Original Character Death(s), World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 01:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18928345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryo_Bucky/pseuds/Cryo_Bucky, https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: Steve went to war because he didn't like bullies. Because he wanted to do his part to make the world a safer place. But war isn't what he thought it would be. War is mud and rain and blood and death.It's a hard lesson to learn





	Reveille to Taps

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my beta, maurheti, and to my amazing artist for giving me such a great prompt to work off of. It was a joy working with you.
> 
> * This fic contains discussions of death, dying, descriptions of men wounded in war. Discussion/detail of wounds acquired in battle.

https://i.imgur.com/KACTG5h.png

When they get back from Azzano, Steve’s caught up in meetings and debriefs that last for hours until he’s exhausted and bleary-eyed. He hasn’t slept in nearly a week. Has barely even closed his eyes since he woke up to do the show for the remains of the 107th. He hadn’t slept much on the flight to Europe either, if he’s honest. He’d been too busy staring out the window at the water, at the distant tracer fire that stood out like fireworks on his birthday.

He’s not sure if Colonel Phillips actually takes pity on him or if Peggy has a hand in it, but he’s finally dismissed. He goes to the medical tent, but Bucky’s not there. He spends a few minutes with the wounded soldiers there, accepting thanks he really doesn’t deserve. They were incidental. Whatever the opposite of collateral damage is. 

He saved Bucky. 

He’s got no idea where to look for him though, so he walks around the camp, He wishes he knew who to ask. Hopefully, Bucky’s in a tent somewhere, sleeping off captivity and torture and a three-day walk back to camp. When Steve reaches the fence, he turns around and looks back over the camp. He suddenly feels those three days of walking, of fighting, of fear. Exhaustion settles on him like a blanket, and he drags himself toward the area that’s been blocked off for the showgirls – himself included.

Hitler’s gone to bed, stage mustache gone. He’s got a lame leg, so he wasn’t able to join the war effort, but at least he’s doing something. It’s just not a something that’s enough for Steve. He settles on his cot, sitting there and staring at the olive-green canvas fabric. He’s too tired to sleep, the aftereffects of the fight and the rescue and _doing something_ still singing in his veins.

** 

He jerks awake, breathing fast and heavy. He’s on his side, feet still on the ground. He’d fallen asleep and fallen over. His head is full of the sound of explosions, and he swears he can still feel the heat of fire at his back. Everything was subsumed by the pure relief of Bucky being alive, but now it’s all coming back. 

He shakes off a shiver and gets to his feet, grabbing his leather jacket from where he’d dropped it on the end of his cot. He ducks out of the tent, ignoring giggles and whispers from the ladies’ tent, ignoring the low murmurs of soldiers who are where they aren’t supposed to be, no doubt causing some of those giggles.

He heads deeper into camp, walking toward the guarded fence they’d made their way through hours before. Far too many people salute him, and he doesn’t know exactly how to respond, though instinct comes into play and he sketches a salute back. He’s almost to the gate when he hears a soft noise, something he probably wouldn’t have noticed without his new and improved hearing, but it’s one he knows all too well.

Diverting from the gate, he heads toward the source of the noise. It’s a low, lonesome whistle, a Irish lullaby Steve would recognize anywhere. He makes his way through the trees that line the length of the fence, walking quietly.

He passes one last tree and stops dead, not really surprised to find Bucky’s gun pointed directly at his center mass. 

“Good way to get yourself killed, Rogers.”

Steve walks over as Bucky puts his gun away. Steve settles next to him on the fallen log, resting his arms on his knees and crossing his hands at the wrist. “Figured you’d be asleep.”

“Me too. Can’t seem to manage it though.”

“Dreams?”

“Not sure. Honestly, I’m not sure if I’m awake and all this is real; if I’m asleep and dreaming; or if I’m still on that table, strapped down and hallucinating. I’d think awake, because my imagination couldn’t come up with this if it had a lifetime.” He reaches out and flicks Steve’s left biceps. “But I don’t know what the fuck they put into me, so I’m probably hallucinating.”

“I promise I’m real.”

“Pretty sure that’s what a hallucination would say.”

“That’s fair.” Steve nods. “But as someone who’s had hallucinations before, they’re usually much more weird.”

“Weirder than the skinny, short pain in the ass you’ve known all your life showing up looking like the Charles Atlas campaign actually worked as he rescues you from sort of science-fiction Nazi work camp? Weirder than him saving pretty much every man in the camp with a prop shield, no military training, and a stage name?”

“When you put it like that…” Steve shrugs. “But if you know the science-fiction Nazi work camp was real, what’s so weird about the rest of it?”

“A guy ripping off his face?”

“Well, that was pretty weird for me too.”

“Not nearly as comforting as you’d think.” Bucky sighs. “It’s not like you thought, Steve. It’s not patriotism and pride and doing the right thing. That’s not what’s going on over here.”

“I know that. I’m not naive.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Yes. You are. Men aren’t laying down their lives, Steve. They’re getting them ripped away from them by bullets and strafing and mortar fire. By torture and fucking blue ray guns that vaporize them on the spot. It’s not what the papers say.”

“I didn’t just waltz into that compound, Buck. I killed people. I’m living with that.”

Shaking his head again, Bucky gets to his feet. He touches Steve’s shoulder as he steps over the log and heads back to camp. “Not really. Not yet.”

**

Steve finds Bucky again later. He’s in the mess tent sitting with a group of men. Steve recognizes them as the first to rush over to Bucky after they’d gotten out of the building, staring at Bucky the same way he’d stared at Steve when he’d first seen him.

They’d crowded around Bucky as they started the march back to camp. Steve could see their concern – honest, but also a thinly veiled guise for the protection it obviously was.

He wants to spirit Bucky away from them, have him to himself, even though it’s clear that Bucky isn’t himself. Not quite. There are shadows under his eyes and, even when he’s looking right at something, he seems to be staring at something far away.

Sometimes Steve thinks he might be looking back to New York , wondering if Steve – the Steve he knew – is still back there somewhere.

He watches them and can see the way Bucky’s shoulders are relaxed, even though he’s not quite himself. There’s an easy camaraderie between them as they laugh and tease each other. Steve can’t help but compare this Bucky to the man he’d seen a few hours ago. Can’t help but wonder if he’s the difference between them.

It’s easy to turn and walk away, to leave them to it. It’s also the hardest thing Steve thinks he’s ever done.

He goes back to his tent – a new one all to himself now that he’s officially active duty and the rest of the tour has gone home. He’s glad he at least got to say goodbye.

Flipping through his notebook, he looks at picture after picture of frustrated uselessness. He takes his pencil and stares at a blank sheet. He intends to draw. He can see the picture in his head – a prop shield and a showgirl’s helmet, but instead he writes a list of their names.

_Jacques Denier_

_James Montgomery Falsworth_

_James Morita_

_Timothy Dugan_

_Gabe Jones_

He puts his pencil to the page again, staring at where the tip meets the cream-colored paper. He knows the haunted look in Bucky’s eyes. He knows Bucky was drafted, no matter what lies he told Steve. And he knows every one of those men has a right to go home. Should go home.

He needs to scratch out every one of the names on the list and take whatever team Phillips gives him. Instead, he adds one to it.

_James Barnes_

**

A truck of wounded comes in, and the rush and shout of medical personnel echoes through most of the camp. Steve watches from not far away as triage tags get placed, black and red and yellow and green. He knows enough to know what they mean, and as the red- and yellow-tagged men are taken into the tent and the green are bandaged hastily, Steve walks over to those tagged black.

They’re dying.

Most of them are stoic, faces blank. Some of them are crying, begging for help because help means they’re going to live. One of them looks as if he had lied about his age, looks like he shouldn’t even be out of high school. He walks over and squats next to him. “Hey.”

The guy reaches out and Steve grabs his hand, blood sticky on his palm. “You an angel?”

“Not even close,” Steve assures him with a small smile. “Just looked like you might want a friend.”

He laughs, bitterness and hysteria mixed together. “I want my leg back.”

Steve looks down, and his leg is shattered. There’s a bandage and a tourniquet on it, but the white gauze is dark red except for the very edges. “My best friend used to read all these science-fiction novels – H.G. Wells, Isaac Asimov, Robert Heinlein, and all the pulps, you know? They’d hook you up with a robot leg. Kick some Nazi ass with that, huh?”

“Yeah.” His laugh is weak, but it’s a laugh. “Old Adolf wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Not a single one.” The grip on Steve’s hand loosens, and he grips all the tighter. “What’s your name?”

“Peter, sir.”

“None of that. Just another soldier. Where you from, Peter?”

“Oklahoma.”

“Went through there once. Most of my life’s been in Brooklyn.”

“This and that’s all I’ve seen of the world.” His voice is thready and he’s not gripping Steve’s hand at all anymore. “It’s pretty here, huh? Nothing like Oklahoma.”

“No. I imagine not.” Steve watches as the light goes out of his eyes, the same flatness and grey that he saw when his mother passed. He closes Peter’s eyes and lays his hand on his chest. He says a silent prayer and blows out a breath before moving to the next man marked with black.

**

He’s sitting on an empty cot – one that had held a soldier not that long ago – in the med tent. He stays out of the way of the triage folks. None of them are doctors or nurses, but they do what they can to get the boys ready to travel away from the front toward some of the hospitals, or churches serving as such.

By the time everyone’s been dealt with, there are twelve dead bodies, five walking wounded, and fifteen men loaded into a truck for transport. Steve rubs his eyes. They’re gritty and dry. He can feel the burning like he has tears to shed, but he’s far too numb for that.

“Captain?”

Steve looks up, blinking at one of the Privates standing nearby. “Yes?”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just… Yeah.” He stands up and reaches out to shake the Private’s hand, but where he’s wearing gloves, Steve’s hands are covered in blood. He wonders how many men’s lives he’s wearing on his skin. He drops his hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” It’s more of a question. No doubt he has no idea what Steve’s talking about. Steve’s not sure he knows, himself. He leaves the tent and heads to the showers, suddenly weighted down by the blood. It’s dry by now, cracked, and he needs to wash it all away. He scrubs his hands with soap and a hard brush, the water so cold it burns. When he’s done, there’s still blood beneath his fingernails and his skin is scrubbed raw, healing almost as fast as he could scrub.

He doesn’t have a towel, so he shakes his hands off, then runs them through his hair, heading back to his tent. He should eat – he can hear the men in the mess, and he wonders how many hours he’s lost. There’s a shadow outside his tent that resolves itself into Bucky as Steve gets closer.

“Where ya been?”

“I had some things to do.” He clears his throat. “Why?”

“Been looking for ya’s all.” He takes a drag off the cigarette in his hand, the cherry burning brighter as he does. He blows the smoke out of one side of his mouth, angled away from Steve, a result of years of habit. “Haven’t seen you all day.”

“I didn’t know you were looking for me.”

He takes another drag, then pinches the burning end and drops it to the ground, grinding it out with his foot. He takes the rest of the cigarette and puts it back in the pack. “So, you got time for your old pal Bucky?”

“Always, you mook.” He hooks his arm around Bucky’s shoulder and tugs him into the tent. Bucky settles on the rickety chair next to the table he’s been allotted and picks up Steve’s pencil, tapping the eraser against the tabletop as Steve settles on his cot. “Something on your mind?”

“Don’t suppose you’re gonna go home now, are you?”

“No.” Steve gives him a half smile. “I can’t. You know that.”

“Yeah. I do.” Bucky sighs. “What if I asked you to?”

“Buck.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He chews his lower lip. “I don’t want you here.”

“I have to be here. That’s what this is for. This body. They gave it to me to be a soldier. To help with the war. It’s what I want. It’s what I have to do.”

“This, Steve.” Bucky jabs Steve’s notebook with the pencil. “This is what you’re _supposed_ to do. You’re an artist. You create. This is about tearing something down. This isn’t what you were made for.”

“It’s exactly what I was made for!” Steve takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He lowers his voice and looks at his hands. “Who I was, Buck? The body I had? I wasn’t good for anything. The only thing about me that was worthwhile was the fact that you’re my friend.”

“Bullshit. You were the best damn thing in our neighborhood. Don’t remake your own history. I was _there_.”

“I want to be here. I can do good here. Make a difference.”

“Prove yourself, you mean.” Bucky opens the notebook and starts tearing out pages, throwing them in the air one by one. “You want a parade, Steve?”

“I want to save lives!”

“How about you save your _own_.”

“I saved yours!” Bucky’s jaw tightens. He inhales and exhales through his nose, refusing to look at Steve and instead staring at the paper littering the floor of the camp tent. “I’d risk anything and everything for you, Bucky.”

“And everyone else, apparently.” He looks at the notebook in his hand, brow furrowing. “What’s this?”

Steve doesn’t even have to look to know. “I told Phillips I was putting a team together. I want the best men out there with me. And you… you seem to trust these guys. They had your back.”

“You’re going after Hydra.” There’s a deadness to Bucky’s voice that matches the blankness in his eyes. “Schmidt.” He pauses and can’t quite suppress a shiver. “Zola.”

“I’m going after them. I’m going to stop them. I’m going to make them pay for what they did. What they did to you.”

“You’re going to ask them to go with you.”

Steve nods. “I know I don’t have a right to. I know I shouldn’t. They lived through that and that’s doing enough. But I get the feeling that some of them might want to get a little of their own back from Hydra.” He looks at Bucky through his lashes. “what do you think?”

“I think they’re probably as dumb as you are.”

Steve fights his smile. “You mean they’ll say yes?”

**

“So.” Dugan’s voice is deep and disbelieving. “Let’s get this straight.”

Gabe nods. “We barely got out of there alive, and you want us to go back.”

Steve shrugs and nods all at once. “Pretty much.”

“Hmm.” Falsworth gives Steve a flat smile, British and proper. “Sounds rather fun, actually.”

Morita lets out a belch. “I’m in.”

Steve looks at Gabe and Jacques, wishing he understood French. Denier laughs and shakes Gabe’s hand. Gabe nods. “We’re in.”

“Hell, I’ll always fight.” Dugan lifts his glass and points a finger at Steve. “But you gotta do one thing for me?”

“What’s that?”

“Open a tab.”

Steve does just that, then joins Bucky at the bar. The shadows are darker under Bucky’s eyes and he looks like he’s getting less and less sleep every night. Bucky takes a look at him and scoffs. “See? I told you. They’re all idiots.”

Bucky knows he was on the list. Steve’s not stupid. And somewhere, deep down, he hopes Bucky’s going to turn him down. That he’s going to fly out of here in the opposite direction of the rest of them, go back to New York and live the kind of life Steve’s always wanted for him. The kind he always tried to steer Bucky to rather than wasting his time on some wheezy shrimp.

“How about you?” Steve smiles at Bucky, making it all a joke. “You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?”

“Hell, no.” Bucky shakes his head. “That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight? I’m following him.” There’s a pause and Bucky looks over at Steve. “But you’re keeping the outfit, right?”

Steve sweeps his gaze over Bucky and smiles. “You know what? It’s kind of growing on me.”

**

“What the hell is that?” Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up when Steve walks up to the group of his men. “Please tell me you are not walking around with a target on your arm.”

“It’s a shield,” Steve tells him.

“It’s a bullseye.” Bucky raises his eyes skyward. “Did Howard talk you into that? Or is it a joke? Please tell me it’s a joke.”

Steve gives Bucky a sharp glare and flings the shield. It bounces from tree to tree to tree, gouging a slice in each of them before it returns to Steve’s hand. Dugan’s eyebrows rival his moustache for a moment as they lift up to his hairline. “Don’t think it’s a joke.”

“It’s still a damn target.” Bucky goes back to talking to Gabe and Denier, half in English and half in French. Steve absolutely does not stick his tongue out at the back of his head before he throws the shield again. Dugan snorts, an impressive noise that Steve ignores, and goes back to cleaning his guns. After a while, Steve feels a light touch on his shoulder and whips around quickly, shield at the ready.

Morita doesn’t seem fazed. “You okay, Cap? Because I think France would like some of its trees still standing at the end of this.”

Steve looks and realizes that all of the men are staring at him or the trees. The angles of some of the cuts defy physics, and many of the trees are teetering precariously.

“I think we’re fine on firewood now,” Monty agrees.

“Sorry.” Steve takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Just thinking.”

He had been. Thinking about lifeless eyes and disembodied limbs lying on litters next to the people they belonged to. Thinking about blood. So much blood.

“You were practically a blur toward the end. Maybe think of something else.” Dugan gets up and comes over, patting Steve on the shoulder. “Kittens. Booze. Breasts. The good things in life.”

“The only cats we knew were starving alley cats or dinner in Hoovervilles.” Bucky says. “And Mrs. O’Reilly’s cats, which were little balls of hate.”

Dugan tilts his head in a nod of acceptance. “Booze and breasts then. Hell of a lot better than thinking about all of this.”

Steve starts to ask him – all of them really – why they’d agreed to stay, to help him. He knows he’ll do everything he can to earn their respect, but helping them escape doesn’t seem enough for them to actively choose to put their lives in danger when he knows they’ve all got something to go home to. He’s not sure if any of them would give him an answer, at least not an honest one.

Bucky though. He’s worried the most about Bucky, because he knows the reason Bucky’s staying. He’s staying because Steve is staying, and even though Steve’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself now, Bucky’s job always has been and always will be to watch Steve’s back.

Steve heads back to the main part of the camp, set to give Howard his update and likely get commandeered by Peggy or, worse, Phillips. He’ll pass the shield off to Howard for now, and then, if he manages to stay out of everyone’s sight lines, he’ll make his way to the med tent again. He has his sketchbook with him in the pocket of his pants, and he plans to draw pictures for the guys still laid up.

He’s almost to the outskirts of the tents when he hears footsteps. He stops and glances back to see Bucky jogging to catch up. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Steve waits for Bucky to meet up with him before walking again, the two of them falling in step. It’s strange to walk alongside him without struggling, matching their strides to each other without any problems.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Bucky’s rifle is slung over his back and he’s got his hands in his pockets. “I’ve seen that look on your face before, usually right before someone punches it.”

“I think I made a mistake.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Bucky takes a few hurried steps and turns around, walking backward in front of Steve. “Could you repeat that? Because I’ve known him for most of my life, and I’m almost positive I’ve never heard Steve Rogers admit to such a thing.”

“You’re real funny.”

“Adds to my dashing good looks and charming personality. But we’re not talking about me.”

“We’re always talking about you.”

“Usually we’re talking about you and how much trouble you get into. It’s other people who talk about me.” Bucky smiles. “Now, c’mon. Something’s wrong. Talk to me. What mistake do you think you made?”

“Asking the six of you to do this with me.”

Bucky stops walking, which means Steve does as well. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“So you’re just an idiot then?” Bucky reaches out and puts a hand on Steve’s chest. “Look at me.” Steve makes himself meet Bucky’s eyes. “We all had the power to say no. We all got the pass to go home. But these… Those Hydra assholes. We want to get ours back. They’re evil. Like Hitler. Even worse, maybe. They treated us like animals. We _need_ to do this, Steve.”

“You had it worst of all. You’ve never wanted to be here, and then Zola took you. I should never have asked you to stay.”

“You never had to ask.”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t rather be home with your folks and sisters? You want to be here in the rain and the muck and the blood?”

“I want to be where you are. I need to be there. I told you, Steve. To the end of the line.” Bucky sighs heavily. “I know how you feel. I do. I’ve sat there at your bedside while you were barely breathing, sure that each inhale was going to be your last. I know what it’s like to need to protect someone. Why the hell do you think I didn’t want you over here?”

Steve rubs his hand over his face. “I watched people die the other day.”

Bucky frowns. “We were in camp.”

“I know. I was at the med tent.” He looks down at his hand, even though the blood’s finally completely washed away. “I sat with them while they were dying.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Steve.”

“I had to. They didn’t have anyone. I didn’t want them to die alone.”

“I know you’re strong as an ox now, but… Just because your heart’s beating better doesn’t mean it’s not just as soft as it was before.” He comes closer and looks Steve right in the eye. “You’re going to see a lot of people die over here. We’re all cannon fodder. That’s part of why you’re staying, right? Because if you’re on the front lines someone else doesn’t have to be. Sacrifice yourself to save someone else, no matter what I say?”

“That’s not…”

“That’s exactly.” Bucky shakes his head. “I know you, Steve. And whether or not it’s in those words in your head, that’s what you’re thinking. That’s why you’re here. And that’s why I am too.”

“You don’t _have_ to be.”

“Neither do you!” Bucky doesn’t quite yell, but his voice is loud and sharp. “You were home and safe and now you’re bigger and I think the stupid got bigger with you. You were safe.” Bucky sighs, shoulders slumping. “And now you’re here. So if I’m going home, I’m going with you.”

Steve doesn’t look away from him, doesn’t think he can. Bucky’s expression is open and honest, his jaw set. “Okay, Buck.”

Bucky nods. “Good.”

**

Steve gets shot and it burns, a searing heat tearing through his skin and setting his blood on fire. He finishes the fight, then heads back to meet up with the rest of the team. He’s not exactly limping, but his stride is off and Bucky just stares at him. “I let you out of my sight for one minute. One fucking minute, Steve!”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shot, you idiot.”

“But I’m fine.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, then punches Steve hard on the arm. He walks off after that, sitting down on a fallen log and working on his rifle. Gabe starts to tend to the wound and then stops. “It’s a good thing it missed everything vital and came out the other side, because there’s no hole.”

“What?” Everyone else says the same thing, echoing Steve’s voice.

“You’re all healed up, Cap.”

Steve grins triumphantly in Bucky’s direction. “See!”

“Don’t make me punch you again,” Bucky growls.

Steve fights to hide his smile as he walks over and sits next to Bucky. Just to irritate him, as soon as he’s settled, he starts playing with the hole in his pants. Bucky growls again and Steve barely suppresses a laugh.

“Asshole,” Bucky mutters under his breath.

“I think you mean best friend.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve apparently got bad taste.” He leans in a bit, bumping Steve’s shoulder with his. “Does it hurt?”

“Burned at first. Now I don’t feel anything.”

“Jesus. No wonder they wanted an Army of you. Though most people have the sense to say no when someone asks them if they want to be pumped full of chemicals and then blasted with radiation.”

Steve just ignores him and closes his eyes, turning the battle over in his mind. He needs to be more aware of what the shield covers – or more importantly what it doesn’t. Despite what Bucky may believe, he does actually have some sense of self-preservation. And getting shot didn’t actually feel _good_.

“Captain. I’m picking something up on the radio.” Gabe’s brow furrows as he works on getting the message to come through. They all gather round, listening to what they can make out between the bursts of static.

It’s an Allied message, a battalion not far from them under heavy fire. There’s no discussion as they gather their supplies, Gabe radioing that they’re coming to them from the east. They’re typically not near the main fighting; normally they’re taking out splinter groups of Hydra goons, searching for Zola and Schmidt while taking out as many of their followers as they can. 

Even so, Steve’s reputation has gotten around, so there’s a moment of silence before the voice on the other end shouts away from the radio, yelling that Captain American and the Howling Commandos are coming.

“Let’s hope the Nazis aren’t listening in,” Bucky says as he rolls his eyes. “Let’s gear up.”

It’s not a long march, though the four days of rain they’ve had means it’s not exactly an easy one, slogging through mud and wet leaves. They meet up with one of the squads, and Bucky and Steve join the squad leader so they can get filled in on the situation. They mark out a plan amidst the sounds of gunfire and distant explosions, and Steve shakes hands with the Lieutenant before he and Bucky head back to the team.

They’re all huddled under a jury-rigged cover; a ratty, half-shredded tarp thrown over two tree branches. Water drips through, but they stay relatively dry. Not that it makes much of a difference considering how wet they’ve been the past week. 

“We’re going to flank them, then come up behind. There’ll be two other squads with us.”

“These are straight-up Nazis,” Bucky says with a feral smile. “Still bad guys, but no blue ray guns to vaporize us.”

“It really is the little things, isn’t it?” Monty’s tone is as dry as they likely all wish they were.

“We’ll leave at sundown. No forward scout. We move as a team.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to go haring off on your own?” Bucky raises an eyebrow, and Steve very deliberately ignores him.

“Get some sleep if you can. They’re wet and muddy,. But there are a few empty foxholes.” All of them go quiet for a moment. Empty foxholes in an active war zone means dead or wounded. “No one’s needed on watch while we’re here, so take advantage of it.” He levels a look at them all, one at a time. “Sleep. Don’t just jerk off.”

“Why Captain.” Gabe bats his eyelashes; his falsetto attempt at a southern accent hurts to hear. “The things you say. You’ve caused me to blush.”

“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

They walk off laughing, and Steve watches them go with a smile on his face. He starts as he turns slightly and Bucky is standing there, closer than he’d been before. He’s too good at being silent these days.

“Don’t suppose you’re going to take your own advice.”

“I thought I’d go back to command.”

“I know you need less sleep, Steve.” Bucky lifts his hand to stop Steve from saying anything. “But you still need some. And I know for a fact that you haven’t been getting any.”

“I’m fine.”

“How many times have I heard you say that in my lifetime?”

“I really am.”

“And how many of those times was it a lie?”

“I wasn’t always lying,” Steve huffs.

“Come on.” Bucky grabs Steve’s arm and hauls him toward the far side of camp. He doesn’t let go as he drops into the foxhole, and Steve has no choice but to follow him. “Sit.”

Steve does, but he makes sure his expression lets Bucky know he’s not happy about it. At all.

Bucky slouches against the dirt wall across from Steve. His gaze is sharp as he looks Steve over. “You need me to sing you a lullaby?”

Steve snorts a laugh. “I’ve heard you sing.”

Bucky kicks at Steve’s foot, dropping his eyes as if to watch. “How are you doing?”

“What d’you mean?”

“It’s not what you expected. Probably less and less every day.”

“No. It’s not. But I don’t know that anyone who hasn’t been in a war before can really expect anything. I mean, until you’ve got boots on the ground.”

“But you had expectations. All the rah-rah Captain America stuff. You were so convinced that it was all glory and honor.”

“What?” Steve snaps, somewhere between incredulous and furious.

“Men laying down their lives,” Bucky says, mocking Steve’s familiar refrain from when he was trying to enlist. “It’s all bullshit, Steve. They’re not laying down. They’re getting shot and blown up. Nobody lays down their life. It’s _taken_ from them.”

“They’re fighting for what they believe in!”

“Or they’re like me and fighting because they didn’t have a goddamn choice!”

Steve snaps his mouth shut and takes several breaths through his nose, trying to calm down. “Why did you stay?” He finally manages to ask, voice soft. “If you hate it so much, why are you still here? Why did you stay?”

Bucky shrugs and shakes his head. “Because you’re here.”

They’ve had this argument before and, Steve imagines, they’ll keep having it until the war’s over and they’re back in New York.

“So it’s my fault you’re cold and wet and muddy and hungry?” It’s not a question. “You hate all of those things. You hate the war. How long until you hate me for keeping you in it?”

“I’m never going to hate you. Couldn’t even if I was inclined to try.” He reaches forward and pokes Steve in the thigh. “Doesn’t even hurt?”

Steve sticks his finger in the hole in his pants. “Nope. Good as new.”

“I swear, I never thought it was possible for you to be _more_ reckless.” He shakes his head and huffs. “Jesus.”

“I’m a miracle of modern science.” Steve straightens and moves over, settling against the opposite wall so he’s leaning right next to Bucky, their shoulders touching. He bows his head slightly. “Death isn’t new, Buck. We saw it at home. All those people during the depression.”

“That was a slow death. Most of the time we just saw them at the end.” Bucky tilts his head so it’s resting against Steve’s. “It wasn’t us pulling the trigger. This is all color – blood and guts and up close. It’s not the same.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t.” Bucky slumps, his head falling forward. “All I ever wanted to do was protect you.”

“I never needed protection.”

“Right. Right. You always had ‘em on the ropes.”

“I can’t sit back and do nothing. I have to take a stand. You know that.”

“Yeah.” Bucky sighs. “Yeah. I do. Which means I’m always going to be standing up beside you.”

“I won’t get shot again.”

“Don‘t make promises we both know you can’t keep.”

Steve ducks his head so he can meet Bucky’s eyes. He smiles, hoping to get the same from Bucky. “I’ll do my best to not get shot.”

Bucky sighs again. “I suppose I’ll take what I can get.”

**

Steve drops his shield onto the ground, then steps away from it. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he forces himself to go back. He sits down hard on the dirt and looks at it. The blood on the edges is darkening to brown.

There’s blood on his uniform, on his gloves, spattered on his face. It was easy to forget, safe in their small group and fighting Hydra, that the men fighting the rest of the war, the war against Hitler, are young boys, baby fat still on some of their faces.

He’d looked down into wide, scared eyes as he brought the shield down, not allowing himself to look away.

He hadn’t stopped there. Hadn’t allowed himself to stop. Now that the battle’s over, he stares down at his boots. They’re covered in things he never wants to put a name to. Suddenly it’s overwhelming and he jerks onto his knees, bracing himself on his hands as the bile rises.

It takes a long time for it to stop, until he’s emptied out and the heaving has subsided. He closes his eyes, but it’s all still there – sight, smell, sound. He knows he’ll never forget any of it. Even if he didn’t have an eidetic memory, he thinks it’s burned into his brain and it will be with him for the rest of his life – crystal clear in too-bright colors.

“You okay, Cap?” Morita sits down on the other side of the shield, looking off in the distance, eyes averted to allow Steve some privacy as he sits down again. “Dumb question, I know.”

“They’re just people under the Hydra suits, but this…”

“I spent most of my first two weeks in the latrine doing what you just did. They said we were fighting a war. None of us thought about that meaning we’d be killing people. But out here – Hydra or not, whether they want to or not, their job is to win. And that means we have to lose. So they’re going to try to kill us.”

“I’m harder to kill.”

“Harder doesn’t mean impossible.”

“You sound like Bucky.”

“He’s a sergeant. That means he’s always right.”

Steve manages a weak smile. “Even when he’s wrong?”

“Oh, yeah. Especially then.”

“No wonder he’s insufferable.”

Morita shakes his head. “He talked about you before you showed up. Little runt with the sense God gave a chicken. Said you taught him what being right meant. Doing the right thing even though it’s hard. Cursed your name for that a few times.”

“Yeah?”

“When they took him out of the cell. He was pretty delirious. Had the flu. Dehydrated. Messed up. Made us let him go because we all pretty much knew he was going to die soon anyway. Not something we’re proud of, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Told us that it’s what Steve would do.” Morita shakes his head and smiles at him. “He’s right.”

“Yeah, well, I’m an idiot. He’s told me that himself enough times.”

“I’m not going to argue.”

“Hey!” Steve shoves him lightly and Morita falls over, flopping dramatically on the ground.

“You don’t know your own strength, Cap.”

Steve stands up, holding his hand out. Morita takes it and lets Steve pull him to his feet. “Thanks, Jim.”

“Nobody can handle Captain America being sad. Brings down morale.” He reaches down and grabs the shield, handing it over to Steve. “The good fight isn’t easy.”

“No.” Steve runs his thumb along the edge of the shield. “No. It’s not. Be nice if it was once in a while though.”

**

War warps time. Every day is both an hour and a lifetime. Steve’s sure they’ve spent decades in the mud and rain and blood and snow, but when he sees a calendar in Phillips’s office, it’s barely been three months. He doesn’t become inured to it, but fighting Hydra makes it easier to put in the back of his mind. Somehow he seems to be the only one who gets hurt on the team, which irritates Bucky to no end, but better he take the hits rather than any of them. He can walk them off. It might take a few hours, but he can.

They infiltrate Hydra stronghold after stronghold, but always seem to be a step behind Schmidt and Zola. Bucky goes quiet before every mission, and afterward Steve’s not sure if Bucky’s angry or relieved that they came up empty-handed.

He hasn’t talked about his time in Zola’s hands and Steve doesn’t blame him for not wanting to relive it. But during their downtime or when they’re marching toward their next objective, he’ll watch him and see so many of the things Bucky doesn’t say.

Steve never experienced anyone with shell shock firsthand, but he can recognize the look in Bucky’s eyes, like he’s seeing something no one else can. But even understanding, Steve still wishes Bucky would talk to him. He’s not sure he can remember a time when he didn’t know everything there was to know about Bucky, couldn’t read him.

There are nights they share a tent and even sometimes when they just put their bedrolls together for warmth. Bucky frowns in his sleep more often than not, and Steve can see the rapid movement beneath his lids where he’s caught in a nightmare. Can feel the panic like it’s a tangible thing. He watches him, watches over him, ready in case whatever is haunting Bucky gets to be too much.

Watching him, Steve wonders what’s worse – the physical or the mental. At least with the physical, there’s a reason for all of it. People can see and understand. With this, with Bucky, there’s really no outward sign. The dark shadows under his eyes and the weight loss are all easily attributed to the war – not sleeping, never enough rations.

But Steve’s known him for a lifetime and he’s not fooled by Bucky’s false smiles. That doesn’t mean he can say anything though, because there’s no better way to make Bucky withdraw behind an easygoing façade.

Bucky comes off watch and settles on his bedroll next to Steve. There’s no room for tents, so they’re spread out amongst the trees, hiding little fires in the dark. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “You’re supposed to sleep when you’re not on watch.”

“So are you.” Steve jostles Bucky lightly with his elbow.

Bucky yawns. “Not tired.”

“Very convincing.” Steve reaches over and musses Bucky’s hair, getting his hand slapped. “C’mon, Buck. You’re exhausted.”

“And you aren’t?”

“Nah. Wide awake.” Bucky yawns again, and Steve can’t help doing it as well. It causes Bucky to raise an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, yeah.”

“C’mon, Superman. I’ll sleep if you sleep.”

Steve gives him a look, but Bucky just raises both eyebrows this time, waiting. “Fine.”

Steve shifts off the top of the bedroll, then gets inside it. Bucky nods, then exhales slowly, though it does little to ease the tension from his body. He still looks like he’s being pulled at both ends. He does get in his bedroll, lying next to Steve. They’re sleeping on opposite sides than they used to, so when Bucky turns on his side, he turns away from Steve.

As much as Steve wishes he’d thought to switch places, he turns on his side to face Bucky’s back, and thinks maybe this will be easier. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

“Not right now, because we’re sleeping.”

“Anytime. About anything.”

Bucky groans softly. “I know, Steve.”

“About anything.”

Another groan and Bucky turns, settling so he’s facing Steve. “I know. But there’s nothing to talk about other than the plan for tomorrow, and we went over it with a fine-toothed comb earlier so, honestly, there’s nothing to talk about. There is sleep.”

Steve ducks his head to avoid Bucky’s eyes and manages a nod. “Would you?”

The annoyance is gone, replaced by concern. “Would I what?”

“Talk to me? If there was something?”

“You’re the first and only person I’d talk to.” Bucky reaches out and flicks Steve in the nose. “Sleep.”

He doesn’t turn around again, simply closes his eyes. Steve watches him as he relaxes somewhat. He’s not sure Bucky’s actually asleep until it’s clear he’s dreaming. He’s breathing steadily, slowly, and Steve breathes a sigh of relief that he appears to actually be getting some rest. It allows Steve to breathe easier, seeing Bucky like this, like he’s the same bo who eft for war instead of the man he’s been forced to become.

“I don’t think it gets better.”

Steve turns his head to see Dugan standing just a few feet away. “What doesn’t?” he asks softly.

“What’s in his head. I don’t think it’s like a scar, where it scabs over and mostly heals. I’ve seen it. My old man. My uncle. Whatever they see, it’s always there. “ He squats down as Steve sits up, careful not to disturb Bucky. “I think maybe everything gets washed out in red. Only color they see.”

“He says he’s all right.”

“You believe him?” Dugan shrugs when Steve doesn’t answer. “You know him best. But I think there’s something else there, something inside his head. Like that little weasel’s still in there somewhere.”

“When we catch him – ”

“I don’t think that’ll change much of anything.”

Steve glances at Bucky. “Is it wrong that I wish it was physical? Something I could touch? Something I could help fix?”

“I think that’s who you are. You see somebody in pain and you want to step in and do what you can. Problem is you can’t help everybody. And some people you can’t help at all.”

“He’s helped me through everything. I can’t just sit by and do nothing.”

“I think you’re doing what you can. Make sure he sleeps. Make sure he knows you’re there for him. Maybe do less dumbass shit. That might help.”

“He tell you guys to say stuff like that?”

“Cap.” Dugan shakes his head. “He doesn’t have to tell us anything. We’ve got perfectly good eyes.”

**

They start hearing rumors of Germany’s defeat as they move into 1945. It’s been over two years since Steve’s been after Hydra – from France to Poland, from Gibraltar to Romania. They’ve routed out strongholds and towns, both captured and killed.

The fact that they seem to be no closer to Zola or Schmidt frustrates all of them, Steve worst of all. Except for Bucky. The further he gets away from Zola’s lab in both time and distance the more Bucky relaxes and seems to go back to his regular self.

But on the battlefield, he seems to be someone else instead – distant and cold, laser focused and still. He gets better and better, his shots never seeming to miss. He’s a huge asset to the team in general and in particular to Steve as he watches his six. Steve still worries, his fears allayed a bit as Bucky comes back to himself. He laughs and jokes and teases Steve mercilessly. Still, for all of the others it’s been more than three years of war, and Steve can see it wearing on them all.

It’s been over six months since they’ve had significant downtime, so as soon as they’re back to camp, he heads toward the command tent. “Excuse me, Colonel – ” Steve stops, eyes widening as he straightens quickly and snaps a salute. “General Eisenhower, Sir.”

“You must be the famed Captain Rogers.”

“I am Captain Rogers, Sir, though I don’t know that I’d go beyond that.” He can feel the flush rising on the back of his neck. “I wasn’t aware you were on the front. Here that is. I know you’re – ”

“Rogers, for the love of God, stop.” Phillips sighs. “What do you want?”

“A furlough for myself and my team, Colonel. We’ve been going non-stop after Hydra and I think we’ve earned at least a weekend.”

“Is that so? We’re just going to stop the war so you can go dancing, Captain?”

“With all due respect, Sir, I think we’d just be fine with a shower and a bed. They’re tired. I don’t think a weekend’s too much to ask.”

“You and your team should have dinner with me tonight, Captain.” Eisenhower turns his helmet over in his hands. “After that, I think we can find a place for you all to stay.”

“Thank you, Sir.” He looks at Phillips. “Colonel?”

“Just because you don’t listen to your superior officers doesn’t mean I do. Go.”

Steve salutes them both, then ducks out of the tent. He sees Dugan and grabs his arm, hauling him toward their mini-encampment. Dugan slaps Steve’s arm when they pull to a stop, the rest of the commandos looking up from the deck of cards. The cards have naked women on them, and Steve’s not sure where they came from, but he has a feeling the German they likely came off of isn’t in any shape to mind. 

“What the hell, Rogers?”

“Eisenhower.” They all stare at him and he groans. “Eisenhower!”

“Yeah, not a single one of us are following you.”

Steve clears his throat and looks pleadingly at Bucky who just shrugs. “Eisenhower is here. In camp. With Phillips.”

“No shit?” Morita asks.

“He invited us to dinner.”

“You.” Bucky takes a cigarette from the kitty and lights it. “He invited you.”

“He invited me and my team and then he made sure we got at least a weekend furlough.”

“If this is a joke…” Monty starts.

“It’s not.” 

Bucky looks at him, no doubt cataloging all of Steve’s tells. He sits back on his heels, then stands. “We’re having dinner with General Dwight David Eisenhower.”

“Yes.”

Bucky moves closer. “Phillips is actually going to let you be around a General unsupervised?”

“Hey!” Bucky doesn’t say anything, just raises an eyebrow and waits. Steve sighs and his shoulders drop. “Probably not. He or Peggy will probably be there. Or both.”

“If he’s smart, he’ll have Stark be there so no one else can get a word in edgewise.”

“Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if you _didn’t_ like me,” Steve huffs. “Anyway, everyone needs to get cleaned up.”

“Captain.”

Steve turns as Peggy walks up to them. There’s something in her eyes, and everyone seems to sense it, all of the Commandos getting to their feet, the naked-lady cards disappearing though Steve’s sure Peggy’s not fooled in the slightest. Steve nods. “Agent Carter.”

“We just intercepted a message. We’ve decoded it and we think it has something to do with Dr. Zola.”

Steve hears Bucky’s inhale. “What about Zola?”

“We know there’s a train coming through the Alps carrying what they’ve dubbed Schmidt’s precious cargo. We think it’s Zola. Looking at the map, I’m not sure it’s a mission you should undertake.”

“It’s Zola. We’re doing it.”

“It won’t be easy.”

“You know what they say, ma’am.” Bucky’s smile is tight and his eyes are hard. Steve can see the distance in them. He wonders if Bucky’s back in Zola’s lab or already on the train in the Alps. “War is hell.”

“What are we looking at?”

“Come to the command tent. We’ll go over the map.”

“So much for General Eisenhower, huh?” Bucky asks quietly as they all follow Peggy. “And furlough.”

Steve looks at Bucky. “I’m not going to rest until he pays for what he did to you. After we get Zola and capture Schmidt? Then we’ll have dinner with whatever General we want.”

“You getting us a date with MacArthur, Rogers? Gotta tell you, that’s more impressive than any of the girls I set you up with.”

“Pretty sure MacArthur doesn’t have any desire to dance with either of us.”

“Hm.” Bucky puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder and squeezes. “What about Churchill?”

**

Over the past two years, Steve’s seen pure evil. 

He’s seen death. He’s dealt it.

He’s seen men missing limbs. He’s seen men beg for death.

He’s seen men haunted by war.

He often wondered how they lived with it.

Bucky fell.

And he realizes now that sometimes you don’t.


End file.
